In Memoriam
by Icarus Unbound
Summary: A tale of three. A story of the psyche. A tale of three. Of past, present, and future. Of crime, punishment, and redemption. Of sin, justice, and mercy. A tale of three. A psychological drama in three parts.
1. 1-1 The End

The End

 _"This is the end, beautiful friend  
_ _This is the end, my only friend, the end  
_ _Of our elaborate plans, the end  
_ _Of everything that stands, the end  
_ _No safety or surprise, the end  
_ _I'll never look into your eyes again"  
\- The End, the Doors_

It is said that when one dies, the totality of one's life flashes before one's eyes. This must be why those dreams and memories returned again and again to him through the long days. For the years have been but a slow dying; the prisoner does not doubt that the hangman's noose waits at the end. Yet recent times have brought a new clarity to his old, rehashed memories. It was the clarity of death. True, he still breathed and walked and talked. But he did not doubt...

Now. All stories have a beginning. It may be difficult for conceited children to conceive of a beginning that did not start with them, or that their elders could ever have been young once. But even wicked old men were children once. From as early as he could recall, he had struggled to control the rancor, as least in front of her. (Was it was indeed true, that he was just bad from the start, born bad?) He liked to think that he strove mightily and lost the struggle, but to be fair and truthful (as a dead man should be), towards the end of their friendship he had not tried. He had exulted in the sweetness of his self-taught dark arts. It was the magic that had given him back control of himself and raised him above the mundane. It had gifted him with power over others - perhaps even the power of life and death.

He had not wanted her to notice what he was becoming, believing that with one more lie, or a bigger lie, he could have had it both ways. He also liked to think that she had belonged to him and that he had been robbed, wronged. To continue with the fair and truthful business, their paths had diverged from the start as had been determined by their divergent natures. That was how she had ended up with another man, and he serving the Master.

Conceited children who may have the chance to review such a history would think badly of him. Let them. He would not want them to experience the glory and horror of the Master in that era, even for understanding. He had been but one of the many men and women groveling at the Master's feet - willingly, gratefully - for the small chance to please Him. And if He should gaze upon them in favor, how their very souls would shrivel in horror even as they feel they would faint in ecstasy! How the Master beguiled and cajoled, terrorized and dominated His servants!

Therefore, it had been unthinkable, even for himself at that time, to be so stubbornly contrary before the Master.


	2. 1-2 The Beginning of the End

The Beginning of the End

Therefore, it was unthinkable, even for himself at that time, to be so stubbornly contrary before the Master. When the Master flicked His wand and lifted him to the air, he thought that it was the end, for He had killed others for less.

"Are you a traitor, Severus?" the Master asked quietly. "Is this all Dumbledore's trap?"

"No! My Lord knows I am loyal to him."

"Yes... I know you believe that. But you show your disloyalty by favoring my enemies."

The Master's words caged him in as the cold red eyes pierced his. He knew what he had to do to be forgiven. He was still favored. He opened his mouth to apologize and condemn her.

"She is nothing, my Lord. She is not worthy of your notice. Please, my Lord, I beg you, let her -" With a harsh flick of the wand, he was silenced. The Master sighed sorrowfully. With a lazy wave of His wand, He flipped him over until he was dangling upside down. Dried mud and dust on his boots and pants, evidence of his rude ejection and hasty flight from Hogsmead, rained down onto his face and choked him, but he could not even blink to clear his eyes. The room and all his colleagues faded away, and his whole world was the two fiery pupils.

"I have to get the bad out of you, boy." He knew! He knew, He knew - " _crucio_."

 _"I have to get the bad out of you, boy." He was crying now. What was it exactly this time? He was shaken hard, and he thought his leg would rip into two. "You stop crying and don't wake Mother up."_

 _Some loops of the rope around his ankle and he was dangling from the kitchen meat hook. He heard the dreaded whoosh and his body exploded. He screamed._

 _"You shut up now. I told you not to do it again. But you did it - shut up!" Father stopped. The butcher's knife appeared before his face. "You see this? You want me to stick you like a pig?" He stopped struggling when he felt the cold metal against his neck. "If you force me I'll have to do it. If that's the only way, I swear I'll open you up, let your wicked blood drain into the sewers. Then I'll chop you up and cook you for dinner."_

 _He stopped crying. It was not through conscious effort; he was just too terrified to cry. He had seen how meat was chopped up. The image of him as the meat was as vivid in his mind as his experience. Even when the pain started again, he couldn't make a sound._

 _Please stop. He won't do it again. Please stop. Never again. (Except he would, because the magic was his and he could not more stop the magic than he could stop breathing. But that was insignificant now, something incidental to be set aside. Father must not know.)_

He was aware of the present again. Was this the end, or was it just an intermission?

"I discipline you out of love," the Master said with sardonically. "Now, you were saying?"

He tried to speak, but couldn't.

A crease of annoyance marred the Master's brow, but this time He looked curious. "Ah yes. They were your classmates." The Master's gaze bore into him. "This ... sentimentality is unbecoming of you, Severus. But _why_?"


	3. 1-3 Why?

Why?

Why?

Why are some, through no particular virtue of their own, given so much?

Why are others, through no particular fault of their own, given so little?

And why could the little that these others have be taken away, and given to those who already have too much? That was not consistent with a just world. (Unless - a little voice always reminded him - he was bad and deserved to be punished. No! That idea was unacceptable. He rejected it; he had to reject it.)

The world was unfair. But he could still hate. James Potter. The name had fallen as a seed into the fertile darkness of his child's heart, and it had taken root the way such ideas only could in the immature emotions of the young. His tears watered it, his envy nurtured it, his anger shone fiercely upon it. His hatred grew tall and sent its roots deep into his heart.

Hatred and vengeance were approved. But _why_?

 _James Potter knew._

 _When they had finally gotten bored of him, they let him down. Perhaps it was because their audience had long dispersed. Perhaps it was just not exciting anymore when their target had stopped responding, had just hung quietly there as they exercised their creativity. Who knew!_

 _"That's it - for now,_ Snivellus, _" James Potter said, "You'd better stay away from - are you listening? Hey, Sn- Severus. You, uh, you ... alright there?" He uncharacteristically stumbled over his words. James Potter squatted down beside his unresponsive enemy, curled up in a ball on the ground, and shook his shoulder. "Uh...hey?"_

 _It was another's voice that answered him. The same person, yet the voice that emerged from his enemy's throat was another's. It was a child's whisper._

"I'm sorry, Father. Please stop hurting me."

 _James Potter fell back, a horror in his face. His eyes were riveted to his enemy's blank staring eyes. It was but a heartbeat. A flush of blood returned to the pallid cheeks. Something returned into the black eyes and they returned his stare, now young man at young man. Horror met horror - the horror of realization against the horror of realization of that horror._

 _"You alright, James? What did he say?" That was Sirius Black._

 _"No - yes. Yes, let's go. We're done here."_

 _James Potter left with his friends. As they walked off, he turned his head and gazed back as if he wanted to say something. But he did not, and left._

It was good that he did not say anything.

It was good that he left.

Because _he_ would never forgive James Potter for that look.

It was not the House rivalry, not their fights (usually with him the loser, but against four!), not the verbal back-and-forth. No, it was that look he could not bear. He had thought himself master of himself and freed of his past, but a moment of weakness and he was publicly exposed, defenseless, humiliated. He would never forgive.

After that incident, James Potter stopped hunting him for sport. In fact, James Potter stopped picking on anyone else. Except when they met. Then, they would have to fight. To do otherwise would be to acknowledge that James Potter knew. And that Severus Snape knew James Potter knew. That was unacceptable.

But James Potter knew. And he knew James Potter knew. And James Potter knew that. For _that_ , he would never forgive.

Never.


	4. 1-4 One to Ask

One to ask

Never. He had never - would never. The Master sifted through the images tumbling free in his mind, seeking and probing. He could not hide, at least not everything. He surrendered, and the Master opened him up, and looked. And looked. And looked into places he did not know were within him. Without malice or mercy, as if dissecting an animal from pure curiosity, the Master reached into his dark places and drew forth thoughts and images that he had hidden away, even from himself.

"So you desire her," the Master stated. "No doubt it is doubly sweet to both destroy your enemy and possess her. Otherwise, poor choice of a vessel."

Yes, those were his deepest and most unspeakable desires! They were all true, drawn from the same source as his other fantasies and nightmares, now cast to die and given form by the illimitable artisan. It would be a symbol of his power over James Potter, over Lily Evans and her poor choices. Standing over James Potter's corpse, he would laugh: he won. Potter lost.

To be able to rule, the master must understand the servant.

But to serve, the servant too must understand the master. He had to entertain and amuse. His life - and hers - depended on it. The images and fantasies he summoned with ease, because they were all true. In fact, they came to him quite naturally.

The Master was pleased.

"Very well," He said. "Let it not be said that _Voldemort_ does not reward his servants." With an expansive sweep of His arm, the Master declared, "I will grant her the chance to live. No -" He smiled generously. "She shall have _three_ chances."

He was grateful. Three was a special number, and for the Master, symbols and the power they held were important. _One to ask, one to task, one_ -

"For your service you are rewarded," the Master interrupted his thoughts.

" _But you dare to favor mine enemies!_ " He shouted, and His servants cowered.

A heartbeat. Two heartbeats.

" _Crucio_."


	5. To sleep, perchance to dream (Part I)

To sleep, perchance to dream (Part I)

This was familiar to him. He was standing at the demonstration table of the classroom. The components of the potion lay arranged before him neatly. What was he preparing again? He looked at the components. Organs. He took one, placed it in the preparation basin and began cutting into it. Blood poured out from the organ. Who knew there could so much blood in a human being? He picked up another. He could not stop cutting.

There was so much blood. It was so red it was black. It filled the preparation basin and overflowed onto the demonstration table. His hands were coated to the elbow. His sleeves were soaked. He heard his name. The knife clattered to the ground. Then silence, and a dripping sound. He looked down. Blood was dripping off the table. It dripped onto the ground, onto his shoes, onto the hem of his robes.

He looked up. The classroom had been empty, but now it was filled with students. He looked at them. They looked at him. He recognised their faces, the ones he had taught over the years. They could see him standing in the pool of blood. They knew the truth. They were filled with hatred and contempt for him. He was humiliated, publicly exposed before their scornful gazes. He could not speak. He could not defend himself. He had to escape. He looked to the door.

And she stood there, young as she had been the very last time they had spoken. Their eyes met.

He always woke up at that point.


	6. 2-1 Hidden Deeds

Hidden Deeds

 _"The sins of some are obvious, reaching the place of judgment ahead of them; the sins of others trail behind them.  
_ _In the same way, good deeds are obvious, and even those that are not obvious cannot remain hidden forever."  
\- 1 Timothy 5:24_

"Sit," he said, dropping the unresisting Draco on the sofa. "They are looking for us now. You will stay here at the moment." He spoke rapidly. "When the coast is clear, I will bring you to your mother. News would have reached her by then." He looked down at the white-faced, trembling Draco, and added, "The Dark Lord will be told of your success and your commendable service in gaining us entry into Hogwarts."

The boy's shoulders slumped in relief. "Thank you, Professor. I - I ..."

He understood. He did not want to make it harder for the boy, when such harsh words had been spoken, and by such a proud child of a proud family. He understood more. He was after all their teacher, head of their House, and himself one of them.

"Don't thank me, thank your father," he said coolly, gazing at Draco with a detached expression on his face. "Yes, though he is in Azkaban, he still has influence over many. I owed him and your mother called in the favor. Thus, I repay my debt to him."

He watched the boy's back straighten and eyes brighten. Of course, then the questions would come. Many questions. He turned, robes swirling about him, and regarded the cramped living room with his hands folded behind his back.

"We are in my house," he continued in the same detached tone, "The house of my Muggle father, now my house. Yes, Draco, I am half-blood. It is no secret." He glanced back with significance then returned to his contemplation of the room. "You can see his published works on Muggle mathematics filling that entire shelf there. But he could barely make enough to keep his family afloat. So here we are, a horrible Muggle slum that no respectable wizard would come within a mile of. In other words, a good place to lie low in."

"I was your age. I returned home for the summer to find my mother gone. My father told me she had fallen down the stairs, taken with fever, and was gone. The Muggle hospital was more specific. The fall had torn up her insides, and so she bled to death from within. It was a terrible fall, they said. She was covered with bruises. A terrible, painful death. Why hadn't she gone to the hospital immediately?

"My mother was a powerful wizardess. She could have made a healing potion to cure ten falls. She could have transfigured herself into living stone that no physical ailment could assault. Or make herself as light as a feather even as she lost her footing on the stairs. Why did she not lift a finger to save herself?

"She had abandoned magic when she married. My father had beaten it out of her, literally. You see, Draco, my mother was such a woman that once she had decided to give her love to someone, she would never take it back, no matter how unworthy he was of it, even if it cost her everything. She would give her life to the man she loved if he demanded it of her. Or if she saw it that way."

He turned back to Draco. The boy's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

"Yes." He replied to the unspoken question.

"I left the house," he continued quietly, "but I was under-aged even in the Wizarding World. Lucius - your father let me stayed in his mansion. We put it as an extended sleepover with a schoolmate. He was kind to me, your father. He didn't have to be, for I had nothing to offer him, but he was. Today, I return that favor.

"But I see you want to know the ending to the story. Very well. After a year, I passed all my NEWTs with flying colors and took a job in the Ministry, doing research on controlled substances. Finally, I could support myself. At that time, the Muggle healers diagnosed my father with cancer. They blamed his excessive drinking. They were quite hapless as he died from the inside out, but not before my coming of age in the Muggle world. So I inherited the house."

There was a long silence. Finally, Draco asked hesitantly, "Was it hard, sir? The first time you used the Killing Curse?"

Yes. Even after all that, it had been hard to look someone in the eyes and cast the curse. But after a while it had become natural, then pleasurable. It had been a high and a craving.

"Not at all," he lied. "I found it quite a refreshing change of pace from the usual hexing. So much more efficient." He smiled sarcastically at Draco. "If you find it so difficult, perhaps you should reconsider your choice of an occupation."

"I - no!" Draco was horrified, "I am loyal to the Dark Lord."

 _You are a liar and a bad liar. You would not last three seconds against Him._ He did not need to force his way into the boy's mind. The bubbling emotion beneath the blank veneer of Draco's Occlumency revealed his true feelings. These clumsy and incompetent children frustrated him to no end! Was he to save another boy now, only to serve him up to _Him_ later on a platter? No, he would not force his way into the boy's mind to demonstrate it. (That particular teaching method had proven to be a spectacular failure.) He considered for a moment.

"I am the Dark Lord's servant," he said coldly, filling his voice with contempt, "but also your parents' friend. If you ever fail the Dark Lord, your parents' already shaky position in our Lord's eyes would not survive. The punishment is death. Or worse." He added, "Your aunt would tell you the same."

He sneered at Draco's terrified look. "If you are such a weakling, run away now and don't burden us with your incompetence."

"I can't run away!" Draco gasped, "he will kill them for that too!"

"Then gird up your loins, Draco. Whenever you falter - nay, _at all times_ , think of the love you bear for your parents and let that strengthen your purpose. Only then can you serve the Dark Lord well, and in doing so protect your parents from harm." He walked to the couch and glared harshly at the boy. "This is your duty to your family. Can you do it?"

"Yes, I can. I must," Draco said, "I must." He clenched his fists. His voice still trembled, his eyes were still terrified, but the boy would survive _His_ gaze - if He did not look too deeply. The Master had never been able to understand this type of motivation.

Next, he thought cynically, you praise the student for their small accomplishment, as clumsy and incompetent though they remain.

"Good. You have already done well. The Dark Lord will be pleased."

"But I couldn't -"

"No. No, you are better than me when I was your age. Now rest. Time is short and I must set my affairs in order. I will return, I promise, and take you to your mother."


	7. 2-2 The Trial on Hidden Deeds

The Trial on Hidden Deeds

He felt no relief, nor could he rest, though he felt befuddled with the strain. He splashed the icy water from the tap into his eyes, trying to clear his head. Killing the old man did not turn out the way he thought it would. Flashes of that irksome face lurked behind the corners of his mind, threatening to leap into his thoughts any moment he relaxed his guard. When was the last time he had cast the Killing Curse? He remembered that time, but it seemed easy in his recollection. And before that? He remembered that time too.

He looked up. The face of Tobias Snape looked back at him from the mirror. It was the face of a murderer. He knew he was the splitting image of his father. He knew he had the same violent temper, cruelty, meanness of spirit, and brutality as the other. He had grown up and become his father.

The old man had wanted him to do it. Annoying as he usually was, the old man was right. He had been offended; He had wanted to be offended, but when he met the old man's piercing gaze, his offense died within him. Till then, throughout all those years, the old man had never asked him that question.

He was not afraid of the question.

He was afraid of the answer.

Yet each year, he was forced to count. He had to read the backgrounds of his new students. Many were scarred with missing parents or other marks of violence. When the old man looked at him that way, he knew that the old man saw matching marks in his soul.

"Did you feel it?" He asked his father in the mirror. "Did you burn in bitter remorse, knowing that every day it would come, relentlessly, even to your last hour?"

He contemplated the face in the mirror. It was a face he had always hated.

"Did you love my mother? Did you kill the one you love?"

"Did you struggle against your own nature?"

"Did you know it was me?"

"Did you forgive me in the end," he demanded, "or did you curse me to your last breath?"

He was afraid of the answer.


	8. 2-3 Justice

Justice

The feeling of water against his feet shook his attention from the mirror. He had forgotten to turn off the tap, and the basin had overflowed. With a quiet laugh, he turned the faucet off and fell back against the wall, closing his eyes to his father's image - his own image.

He had been washing his hands - how trite. The blood cannot be washed off. He knew that. The old man knew that.

The old man was also no longer around to control him. He remembered everything. His memories disgusted and attracted him in equal measures. Without the old man to control him, he would return to all that. He still breathed and walked and talked. But he did not doubt his ending. He should have walked away from it all when he could.

Because he did not want the boy to go down that path! Because he did not want the boy and boy's father to die! Because he did not want the old man (not even him) to suffer in torture and humiliation!

Let it all be on his head then. Let him fall into the abyss. A soul as tattered with evil as his would scarcely feel the rip from another murder. He grew calm.

When he opened his eyes, what he saw paralyzed him. The haunted gaze and resigned expression in the mirror were familiar to him. He had seen them many times in the face of his mother. Towards the end, it had been her only expression.

He had always thought himself unloved by her, for ever did she look thus when she gazed upon him. She had disapproved of his friends. He had detested her for her weakness. He had shouted at her that day he left for school. When he returned the next summer, she was gone.

He should have said something instead of slamming the door in her face. He should have said that he understood and was sorry. He should have assured her that he would change his ways.

As he gazed fascinated into his own eyes reflected in the mirror, his vision blurred and when it cleared he saw the glittering tears spilling down her - his cheeks. She had often cried like this, he remembered. As had Narcissa, when she begged him to save her son. What mother does not love her child?

He sighed and turned from the mirror. His path was straight before him and his purpose clear. It was a pity that he had not realized that he was loved by both mother and friend. In his ignorance he had cast the rough but true diamonds away, for the false glitter of dross. His true wages was death.

It was too late for him. But while he still drew breath, at least let him be of some use.

At the very least, let him be useful for something.

Anything.


	9. 2-4 One to Task

One to Task

"Anything."

The old man's eyes gleamed. "You will report to me Voldemort's plans. All of them. His targets, his movements."

"You are mad!"

The old man's blue eyes were as cutting as the wind that whipped the hillside. "No sooner have you promised me everything than you would crawl back to your master, tail between your legs?"

" _No!_ No, I mean, you expect me to betray the Dark Lord? No one can lie to Him!"

"Haven't you already, by coming to me?" the old man's gaze probed at him. "I believe you had that intention from the start, but you managed to fool him. You were confident of it, am I right? How did you do it?"

Albus Dumbledore's head jerked, breaking eye contact. A look of incredible disgust filled his face. "You are truly vile," he murmured softly. He looked down again, relentless. "Yet you are skilled. Perhaps ... too skilled."

"Are you a spy, Severus?" the old man asked quietly, "Is this all Voldemort's trap?"

"No!"

"Then convince me. How can I believe your story? You have already lied to Lord Voldemort many times and escaped detection, I am sure of it.

"Ah yes, I see. You have calmed and detached your thoughts, that much is usual. But only the ones you want to hide. You have agitated other thoughts that are also true, or half-true that you give a veneer of realism with your emotion. All of them are only diversions to cover your true intent, am I right?" Albus Dumbledore's eyes gleamed with triumph. "Thus, I uncover one truth. Then, another. Oh, here's another. How long can I keep peeling, I wonder? How many layers are there in this onion?"

"As many as dreams in human minds!" He retorted, glaring at the old man in fury.

He immediately broke his gaze and hung his head, letting the dark curtain of his hair hide his expression. He realised then why the Master feared this old man. This was the equal power, but also the greater intellect. He too feared the old man, and not just for his life.

"Then leave me my secrets," he said sullenly, "if you can find no persuasion in my thoughts, leave them be. Let me convince you with reason."

"Very well, I'm listening."

"I care nothing for Potter or his brat. Or your Muggles and mudbloods. Or you. But I ask you to believe - I - I beg you to believe - please - that I want Lily Evans to live.

"The Dark Lord has promised to - to give her to me. But I know Him. I know Lily will never back down before Him. She has never backed down. He - He will kill her. It is certain.

"So - please - He must never find her."

He raised his head and met the old man's eyes. "If you cannot believe me, then let us continue. Slay me now and complete the deed."

Albus Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. So that was it. _I'm sorry, Lily_ , he thought as he closed his eyes and waited.

"Severus Snape, look at me. I will speak in the language you can understand." He was startled. Was this a death sentence, or a reprieve?

"You have served Lord Voldemort poorly by coming here. You _will_ serve me better.

"Your services will continue until the time I choose to release you. In exchange for them, I will hide the Potters from Voldemort. If you fail me, or betray me..." The old man's voice trailed off.

"I will not," he said harshly, "I promise you this. I have said I will give you anything."

"Then we are agreed," said the old man briskly, "It will be too risky to meet like this. The job application, that was his intent, wasn't it? Consider this an interview; you're hired. In fact, your appearance is most opportune. Professor Slughorn has voiced his intention to retire. Or rather, his intention not to get between Lord Voldemort and me."

The old man smiled at his confusion. "Not Defense against the Dark Arts. You topped your class in Potions, I recall. Yes, I remember Ministry officials wrote in, looking for the student whose submission for his practical caught their attention, offering a job at their prestigious Controlled Substances Unit."

"Why did you quit your job, Severus?"

He did not answer. He looked away.

"When you work in Hogwarts, you will not cross any lines with the students," the old man stated quietly. "You will not practice Dark Arts in the premises. You will not deviate from the syllabus. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"I will ask Professor McGonagall - you will remember her, I'm sure - to sit in during your classes. You have requested her help in developing your pedagogical skills, being painfully aware of your lack of it. This will almost double her workload, but she would enjoy helping a new colleague and former student. You will be respectful towards her, and take her suggestions into careful consideration. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly."

"Then go and report back to Voldemort. Move into Hogwarts within a week. Your services to me begin now."


	10. To sleep, perchance to dream (Part II)

To sleep, perchance to dream (Part II)

This was familiar to him. He was standing at the demonstration table of the classroom. The components of the potion lay arranged before him neatly. What was he preparing again? He looked at the components. Organs. He took one, placed it in the preparation basin and began cutting into it. Blood poured out from the organ. Who knew there could so much blood in a human being? He picked up another. He could not stop cutting.

There was so much blood. It was so red it was black. It filled the preparation basin and overflowed onto the demonstration table. His hands were coated to the elbow. His sleeves were soaked. He heard his name. The knife clattered to the ground. Then silence, and a dripping sound. He looked down. Blood was dripping off the table. It dripped onto the ground, onto his shoes, onto the hem of his robes.

He looked up. The classroom had been empty, but now it was filled with students. He looked at them. They looked at him. He recognised their faces, the ones he had taught over the years. They could see him standing in the pool of blood. They knew the truth. They were filled with hatred and contempt for him. He was humiliated, publicly exposed before their scornful gazes. He could not speak. He could not defend himself.

Face burning in shame, he raised his wand to call for water. A stream of blood issued from his wand - no, it was not his wand. With a start, he recognised whose wand it was. It fell from his numb hand into the preparation basin. The basin bubbled and overflowed. Crimson rivulets spread across floor. He looked up again. The students were still there. Somehow he knew that the growing pool must not reach them. He reached into the basin. His hand closed about a cup. He lifted it to his lips.

His gaze fell on her at the door of the classroom, where she had always stood. She was young as she had been the very last time they had spoken. Their eyes met. He was ugly and old and ruined. He closed his eyes to her and began drinking.

It was like water; he was drowning in ice. It was like fire, and burned him like acid from the inside. It was like the grave; it smothered him in oily shadows. It hurt. He was dying. It was, at long last, Justice. He could not stop. As he refilled the cup from the basin, he woke up.


	11. 3-1 Mercy

Mercy

 _"...Therefore, Jew,  
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,  
That, in the course of justice, none of us  
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;  
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render  
The deeds of mercy..."  
\- The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare_

If seventeen years seemed like a lifetime, then each of these days seemed like seventeen years. He would spend most of his time in the Headmaster's office, waiting for the hands of the clock to crawl around its face in agonizing slowness. He had come up with many ways to distract himself, from compiling potion recipes to rearranging the bookshelves. But whenever he looked back at the clock, its hands would have barely moved. The office was the last and only private place left to him. Outside were the Carrows and their crude suggestions for more discipline, more beatings, more torture. Or he had to face his erstwhile colleagues with their masks of polite professionalism, from behind which their eyes glare out with accusation and hurt. The naked hatred of the children was easy to deal with, in comparison.

So it was a relief to him when the alarm tripped in the middle of yet another one of those arguments. "I must interrupt this," he said sharply, "there's an intruder in my office."

He swept off without another word. He was not concerned. The alarm told him that the intruder - no, three intruders - were trapped. Bungling students, no doubt.

There they were!

Neville? Neville Longbottom? With him was Ginny Weasley. She too had suffered under the Master. The last was Xenophilius Lovegood's daughter. What was her name? Luna. Luna Lovegood. The three of them stood at his desk, paralyzed by transparent webbing. They gaped at him. In Ginny Weasley's hand was the Sword of Godric Gryffindor.

One moment later, Alecto Carrow and Minerva McGonagall followed in through the door.

"Just some pranksters," he said.

"I will take that." He touched his wand to Ginny's hand. The webbing parted and he pulled the sword from her frozen grip.

"Give it back, Snape! It doesn't belong to you. Don't you dirty it -"

"Quiet, Ginny!" Professor McGonagall snapped.

"They're from _your_ House, McGonagall?" Alecto hissed. Her fingers flexed and her eyes gleamed.

"Yes, two are. So _I_ will discpline them. Luna is Ravenclaw, and I will take her to Filius."

"But this is _serious_. Breaking into the Headmaster's office. _Burglary_."

Professor McGonagall and Alecto faced off in undisguised hostility. He gritted his teeth.

"Neither of you," he interrupted, "They broke into _my_ office."

He turned to the three children, looking utterly bored.

"But if I have to babysit every idiot Gryffindor who fancies an escapade, the Great Hall won't be big enough. Let me see. Since you long for _adventure_ so much, I think normal detention would be a little bland for your ... _appetites_."

He let a small malicious smile creep onto his expression of boredom. Alecto looked gleeful while Professor McGonagall looked outraged. He spoke before she could.

"How fortunate then that we have an abundance of flesh-melting plants and man-eating spiders in the Forbidden Forest. Detention in the Forbidden Forest. Every evening, for a month. Ah. Since lessons are over today, you start tonight. Off to the half-man with you three. Don't lose your fingers on something sharp now."

With a slash of his wand, he released the spell holding them and swept the children out of his office, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Now where were we before we were interrupted?"

But Professor McGonagall's attention was on the sword now. "Severus, is that the Sword of Godric Gryffindor?" she asked.

"Is it? I don't keep track of every piece of junk in this room." He rolled the sword's hilt around in his palm, hiding the inscription on its hilt.

"I recognize it. It doesn't belong to you, Severus." Professor McGonagall's tone was firm. "As Head of Gryffindor, I request you return it to me."

"But it doesn't belong to you either, Minerva," he replied silkily, "If anyone, it belongs to Hogwarts. And if anywhere, it belongs in this office. What do you think, Alecto?"

"It's the _Headmaster's_ sword, McGonagall." Alecto affirmed gloatingly.

Professor McGonagall sniffed. "Let's see you hold onto it then." She turned to leave.

"One moment. Professor McGonagall, please make sure your students behave themselves from now on. If I have to keep sending them to the Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts might run out of Gryffindors eh? "

The two of Death Eaters chortled with laughter as Minerva McGonagall stormed out of the office, a strange expression on her face.

He then spent an hour beguiling Alecto with the details of his "Educational Solution", knowing that once he had won her over, her brother Amycus would follow. Once the Dark Lord had triumphed, and with His approval, they would separate out the Mudbloods and blood-traitor (Gryffindor) students. The chaff would be cast into the Forbidden Forest, now ringed by a spell. Muggle Studies could do with some action, after all. Alecto could carry out historical enactments and hunt down the Mudbloods in the Forest. Wouldn't that be fine?

Wizarding blood was precious to the Dark Lord. They had to be careful, absolutely certain. If pure blood were mistakenly spilled, He would be angered. The punishment would be severe. It would be best to focus on Harry Potter for now. Once Potter was defeated, they could move forward.

He felt fatigued after his performance. Not from having to entertain Alecto; he could spin stories for the likes of her and her brother all day. It was the brief interaction with Minerva McGonagall that had drained him.

Still, there was one more act to perform. He set the sword down on the desk and flicked his wand. " _Geminio_." The duplicate he returned to the sword's original place. The original he carried to Albus Dumbledore's portrait and placed it into the hidden compartment behind.

"The sword must be protected until it can reach Harry." The portrait said.

"Foolhardy scheme, or do they know where he is," he mused. He shook his head. No.

"The risk is too great," the portrait echoed his own conclusion, "The sword is too important."

"Oh. Is it? But you won't tell me why?"

"I'm afraid not."

He looked at the old man's portrait with detachment and kept his theories on the sword unvoiced. When the portrait started nagging him again about George Weasley, he ignored it completely. Better the ear than the man; When George Weasley screamed, Remus Lupin turned and the green ray had missed him. It did not turn out the way he had planned, but somehow things had worked out. The real Albus Dumbledore would agree. The real Albus Dumbledore would know that the Order would attack him on sight for the murder of Albus Dumbledore himself.

Many sentimental fools have been seduced by portrait magic. They would converse with the portraits as if the paintings were living people. He was no such fool.

At most, he could admire portrait magic, the complex amalgamation of multiple magical disciplines that captured a person's personality patterns. Even the paint preparation was a fascinating subject. The alchemy of thought was esoteric, for unlike material substances it violated conservation from the start. (He could write an essay on that, it would help pass time.) Coloring the base required detailed knowledge of Herbology, since most dyes would not take. (Herbology was hardly his forte and he would not approach the hostile Sprout, so he was stuck with just shades of gray. No matter, it suited him.) Replicating the human image in the portrait, animating it, coaching it, and so on all demanded mastery of different magics. Or an excess of patience brought about by the terrible need to pass time. (He looked at the clock. After all that, it was unbelievably still only seven o'clock.)

It was difficult for him to distract himself.

He refused to talk to the portrait unless he had to. He was not that weak.

He sat at the desk and stared at the book he was working through. The old man's desk was now his desk. The old man's office was now his coffin. The old man's school was now his tomb. Outside, everyone detested him, and his only allies were loathsome to him. He was trapped inside the coffin, suffocating.

He sighed and removed the book from the bookstand. Tapping bookstand with his wand, he spoke his secret and wood grew transparent to reveal the objects within.

Gazing at her photograph, he felt a warmth suffuse him. It filled the hollowness in his heart. Minerva McGonagall did not need to understand. It was better that way.

Then, as it always did, the other nagging feeling crept in. The edge of the photograph was torn. He had torn it up, just like he had destroyed her family. Why had he done that? He could not stop himself from visualizing the rest of the photograph. He just could not escape James (Harry) Potter. He understood Potter's look now. It was not pity and contempt, as he had used to think. It was compassion and shame. But even his mental understanding did not change the agitation that arose in him as Potter's face drifted into his thoughts. The tree could be pruned, but its roots had grown too deep to be uprooted. _He hated Potter!_

He did not need that. He tore his eyes away from the photograph. " _\- friends with Gellert Grindelwald"_ went the letter beside it. The undesired memory of his last conversation with the old man came to him. Every time he looked at her photograph, he was also forced to relieve the ache of the old man's betrayal and the pain of what he had to do next.

Yes. He would bring Potter there. The boy would be told the truth. The old man's portrait would convince him. The boy had to understand why. It was not malice, but necessity. He would return her photograph to the boy. The boy would be delivered to the Master. He should not suffer. In such critical matters, the Master would not play. It would be one swift Killing Curse.

The last remnant of Lily would vanish from the world.


	12. 3-2 The Quality of Mercy

The Quality of Mercy

"Always."

The old man was silent.

Through all the years that he had known Albus Dumbledore, the old man had always had an answer. He waited for it.

"When Harry dies, Voldemort will be vulnerable, and -"

"I don't think so," he interrupted curtly. So there was no answer after all. "Then I am free," he voiced out aloud. "Do you understand? Dumbledore?" He half-grinned, half-snarled at the old man. "I don't feel like it anymore. Any of it. Do your dirty work yourself."

Another silence.

"You gave me your word, Severus."

"So what? I take it back."

The old man frowned. He seemed lost. Finally, half-heartedly, "Does your word mean - "

"You dare. You _dare_!" He had to pause and take in a deep breath. His chest was shaking and it was difficult for him to speak. When he spoke again, the words came in a rush.

"Our deal! The whole premise is preposterous! If I had left then. If I wouldn't serve you. You would let the Potters die? You preyed on me. You used me. I have known - I realised this, long ago. But still I continued. To protect Lily's son. To defeat the Dark Lord. To save her son.

"Liar! From the start, a lie!" His heartbeat pounded in his temples. He clutched at his head. "You gained a useful slave. Why not?"

"No, Severus, it wasn't like that -" the old man pleaded.

"Yes, it was. Yes, your slave. Always, your slave. Chained in promises you drew from me. One after the other. So little faith, old man. You insult me. But still, still I continued. You wanted my life. I gave it. You wanted my soul. I gave it. You kept me in the dark. So be it. Because of your chains? No! I - thought you had a plan. Dumbledore must have a plan.

"And so he has. A plan. _For the greater good_."

He glared at the old man, who shrank away from him.

"Yes! I know! Since Albus Dumbledore has - has seen fit to ask me, _how many?_ Perhaps - just perhaps - I also have a question? About _Ariana_ Dumbledore."

Albus Dumbledore looked stricken. The old man stumbled weakly to the chair and leaned heavily upon it. His body sagged as he pressed a trembling, blackened hand to his forehead.

"Albus Dumbledore doubts my character. Does he doubt my scholarship? It was hard to get details. But I was curious. Can it be? I ask myself, but can it be? Tell me, old man. The truth! Tell me! "

A terrible, forlorn sound emerged from Albus Dumbledore's throat. He seemed to shrivel up just like his dead hand, as he fell to his knees.

"Yes," he whispered, "yes."

"I cannot blame Gellert," the old man continued faintly, "he only held up the mirror to myself. It was the power. My desire for power. The world was ignorant; I would set it right with the firm hand of a benevolent god. They would see my brilliance, and love me - no, worship me for it. If only... if only I did not have my mad sister around my neck!

"Too late, too late!" The old man groaned, "Why didn't I stop before that day?

"My crime was too great. I have been repenting ever since. But still I have not learnt. That ring, Severus, the Stone of Life. The temptation was too great. If I could bring her back! If only I could! I had to tell her, tell her I was sorry. A madness came over me. I put the ring on. Fool! I was a fool! And you - you I've made bear the burden of my folly!"

He flinched. The old man's confession came like a slap to his face. The veil was ripped from his eyes. He would never again see the world the way he had.

"I see." he said coldly, "Long ago, sacrifices for the greater good. Now, sacrifices for the greater good. But in your manipulation you forget. I could give up anything - my reputation, my life, even my soul - just for Lily to live on. What little of her that remains in that unworthy son of hers" - he spat - "but she would still live."

"But there is that last thing. Do I give that up too, and render everything else void?" He sneered at the old man. "What do you think I would do? I made an Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa to kill you; would I escape all of this in my death? Or would I run back to the Dark Lord now, so that He keeps Harry Potter safe, very safe, from Albus Dumbledore, who seeks the boy's death?"

He glared at the old man scornfully and answered himself. "No, I will kill you as planned. I would enjoy that, I think. The boy will die. Lily ... She will be gone forever." He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, Lily. There is no other way."

"Severus..."

"No, _you_ listen to me now." He flashed a venomous look at the old man. "I will follow your plan. But know this: You have no compulsion over me now, you disgusting old man. You never will again. I follow because ... because ..." - he swallowed and gulped for air as he struggled to voice the conflicted emotions within him - "because my desire for Lily to live on cannot - cannot justify - cannot! The countless lives that will be slaughtered, and tortured, if I don't give her up!"

Tears ran down Albus Dumbledore's cheeks. The old man looked shrunken, defeated, helpless. It was strange to him that it could be so. The old man had always been the master; he was the student. The old man had been powerful and upright; he was weak and wretched. But now he felt strong, stronger than he had ever felt before, even during his Death Eater days. His path was straight before him and his purpose was clear. His other options offered him no temptation, for this was the right thing to do. It would only be Justice, finally, the correct ending to the events that had begun so many lifetimes ago. Yes, so many years had passed, and each one seemed an agonizing lifetime. He had met the old man on a hilltop, on a wind-blasted night. He had knelt before the old man, just as the old man was kneeling -

His eyes widened. For the first time in their conversation, he saw Albus Dumbledore as he was. Not as his tormentor, but as a dying old man in pain, suffering from all the faults and weaknesses that _he_ himself had suffered from. Faults and weaknesses he was acutely aware of, against which he still struggled. The anger within him died, replaced with sorrow, though the pain remained. He sighed and bowed his head, letting his hair hide the tangled emotions on his face.

The two remained so, for many heartbeats of silence.


	13. 3-3 The Curtain Falls

The Curtain Falls

When he looked at the old man again, it was without agitation.

"I spoke in anger and haste, Headmaster," he said quietly. An impulse took him down to a knee. "Do not feel sorry, Headmaster. I've always known this to be my ending. How many have I killed and tortured in my Death Eater days? I don't know. I didn't count. They were insignificant to me then.

"These crimes must have a reckoning; Blood must be paid in kind. I myself demand it. I cannot rest till it's done.

"I see all of this now, because you gave me the chance to see," he continued somberly. "Whatever your intentions, I am ... grateful. Whatever your intentions, know that I forgive you. So let me be the cobblestone that paves the road to the Dark Lord's defeat. Let me be useful, at least."

The old man gazed at him softly with eyes full of tears. "Please believe me, Severus. I never intended that lie. When I saw you suffering before me, I saw myself in you. I would have ended myself that day, long ago, if my brother hadn't stopped me.

"What use would your dying be, he shouted, then I would have both sister and brother dead. Go make yourself useful so she didn't die in vain!

"I knew I had to give you a purpose to live, even if that purpose was a lie. I thought that with time, you would forget Lily Potter. True, when I met you on the hillside that night, my opinion of you couldn't have been lower. But time and time again I tested you, and you passed with courage and skill. My regard for you grew; I wanted you to live, to learn. Indeed I have been fortunate to have you by my side these years."

He shrugged wryly. "I've already told you. I will follow your plan with the boy."

"Yes, it is true. Please believe me when I say I've hidden the truth from you all this time, not because I didn't trust you, but because I wanted to protect you. The burden was mine to bear, and mine alone. You have been through so much. I thought if you could remain ignorant, happy, if you could enjoy a few more years of peace, I could make up for what I would have to put you through when Voldemort returned.

"But when Harry told me you'd made the Unbreakable Vow, I knew we had reached the endgame. You must not, Severus, _never_ \- not that way, it rends the soul. You must know I wish you to kill me. _My_ wish, _my_ sacrifice. And poor Harry. I've never wanted this burden on you either. If men must die, I wanted the crime fall upon my head, and mine alone. But time is running out - because of my own vain folly! I have no choice but to place this burden on you. Please, forgive me."

"It's Potter you should seek forgiveness from," he replied coolly, "I've already told you. My ending shall be as I desire - as I deserve."

"No! You are better than you believe yourself to be. No! Do not!" - the old man gasped - "I see it in your face - do not! You _must_ let Harry choose. It must be _his_ wish, _his_ sacrifice. If I know him, he will willingly offer himself -"

"Still playing god, Headmaster?" He sighed in exasperation and stood up. "I've no such faith in the boy. Don't worry, I'll drag him kicking and screaming to the Dark Lord if I have to. No, stop! I don't wish to continue this conversation further.

"We will not speak again. But we will meet one last time."

As he walked through the doorway, he paused and glanced back at the old man. "Remember, Headmaster. My choice. Not yours. Mine."


	14. 3-4 One to Tear Away the Mask

One to Tear Away the Mask

 _The darkness fell over his eyes, and all was silent._

 _"Hmm, this is interesting." The voice echoed through the black void._

 _Gryffindor. He had to be in Gryffindor. He focused on the thought. The singular need circled and circled about his mind._

 _"Why Gryffindor?" The voice asked._

 _It was obvious. Daring, nerve and chivalry (towards her) -_

 _"You desperately want to be with your friend," the voice said smugly. "Loyalty then? Oh yes, and a great deal of tenacity," the voice declared. "A hard worker. Is that patience I sense? How about Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor? The two Houses are friendly."_

 _No, it had to be Gryffindor. He was anxious and terrified, but he focused on being as Gryffindor as he could be._

 _"Oh my, what a ruthless streak! Not patience then, but relentless pursuit. You are well-suited for Slytherin." The voice sounded amused._

 _No, he thought furiously, not Slytherin. He was panicking. It was all going south. He tried again to adjust his own vision of himself._

 _"Such a fast turnabout?" The voice laughed. The fabric of the Sorting Hat felt scratchy, like a hundred spiders crawling over his face._

 _"Well done!" The voice cried, "Not a bad attempt for an untrained child! How about Ravenclaw?"_

 _Ravenclaw was useless to him! The itch over his face increased, and he fought the urge to scratch or tear the horrible Hat off. He fought back his tears of frustration as the voice went on, "A terrible hunger for knowledge. A desperate desire for recognition. Your talent and intelligence, coupled with your willingness to work hard, will take you far in Ravenclaw and gain you the recognition you crave. No? Then back to Slytherin. You wanted to be in your mother's House, yes? They hold ambition and ability in high regard. You will do well there."_

 _He wanted to scream at the Hat. Gryffindor didn't get along with Slytherin. A wedge would be driven between Lily and him. It was inevitable, whether it would happen in a year, or two years, or four years. He could see all the way to the end of it. It was obvious! Any idiot could see it!_

 _"Well reasoned," the Hat replied, "so go to Ravenclaw."_

 _He wanted to be in Gryffindor. Why can't he be in Gryffindor?_

 _"You won't fit in", the voice explained patiently._

 _He would see to it that he fit in. He would just act the part and they would never tell._

 _"Hmm yes," the voice said, "you're cunning enough for that. But seven years is a long time. You won't enjoy it."_

 _He didn't need to enjoy, he needed to be with Lily._

 _"You would be frustrated. You would hate it."_

 _He would reveal it when he graduated. The look on their faces would make up for it._

 _"You precocious little schemer!" The voice laughed. It took on a sly tone. "So if I sort you into Gryffindor, which obviously you're ill-suited for, you would pretend for seven years?"_

 _Yes, he thought anxiously, he would do it. Put him in Gryffindor!_

 _"Even if you hated it there?" The slyness in the voice deepened. "Would you live with the Gryffindor students, study with them, fight with them? All of it?"_

 _Yes, he thought, all of it!_

 _"Nothing you won't do huh?" The voice sounded extremely pleased._

 _Nothing whatsoever, he assured the Hat. He was just as pleased; he was going to Gryffindor._

 _"Then it's clear the House you're best suited for is - SLYTHERIN!"_

 _The Hat was lifted from his head. He was flabbergasted. The Hat had tricked him! Then he became aware of the hundred of pairs of eyes in the Great Hall on him. (There was whispering. Snivellus Snape, yelled James Potter. The Gryffindors burst into laughter. Lily looked furious.) Blood rushed into his cheeks, and he thought he would faint from the embarrassment. He quickly put his sleeves to his face and rubbed the tears away. He leaped to his feet and walked briskly to the Slytherins, his face burning._

 _"Welcome! I'm Lucius," the prefect greeted him. "What happened there?"_

 _"It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw," he lied quickly, "but I insisted to be in Slytherin."_

 _Lucius smiled approvingly. "The 'claws aren't so bad, but Slytherin's where it's happening."_

 _He nodded awkwardly, suddenly acutely aware of how his frayed second-hand robes compared to the prefect's new ironed ones. Lucius patted him on the back and guided him to sit down beside himself. "Don't worry about that, you're one of us now. We always take care of our own..."_

Choice. He had always had a choice.

He did not speak. He would not. Within his hollow chest, the hand of Death squeezed his heart in a vice-like grip. Ice water ran through his veins. Ice water, not blood. Ice water.

Gellert Grindelwald. The Stone of Life. The Deathstick. It all came together the moment the Dark Lord identified the old man's wand.

He would not speak.

Three sacrifices had been planned - one to conceal, one to open the door to defeat, one to open the door to death. Of course, the old man always had a plan. He was satisfied. So the old man did not toss him aside as a by-the-way, as a footnote to Harry Potter.

He would not turn aside at the last moment. Yes, he was ruthless, and most ruthless of all to himself. To reach his goal, there was nothing he wouldn't do. Would he speak, cast his friend's son into the water, just to keep his own miserable self afloat for longer? He would not. The Dark Lord with mastery of the Deathstick would be unbeatable. He would not falter now. A pity he could not see the look on the Dark Lord's face when He found out.

But he was anxious. It was going too fast. He had to go to the boy. He had to tell the boy. There was too much at stake. Without him, would the boy talk to the portrait? Surely so, these sentimental fools were predictable. But what if he didn't? There was too much at stake. Would the boy even guess the password to the office? Surely so, he had made it that simple, tailored it to the way the boy's mind worked. But what if the boy was even more stupid than he had imagined? There was too much at stake. What if the boy ran away instead? It was not going the way he had planned. He needed more time. There was too much at stake, he needed more time...

Then he was falling. Death was like water; he was drowning in ice. Death was like fire; it burned him like acid from the inside. Death was like the grave; it smothered him in oily shadows. Dying, like killing, was easier in theory than in practice. It hurt; he deserved it. But what if everything failed? He would deserve that too.

He felt hands on him and a face appeared before his dimming vision. Lily! No, it was the boy. How? No matter, there was no time for that, no time for lies. No more lies.

 _All stories have a beginning. It may be difficult for conceited children to conceive of a beginning that did not start with them, or that their elders could ever have been young once..._

Conceited children who may have the chance to review such a history would think badly of him. He thought badly of himself too. But that was who he was! Now, he was helpless to do anything more. The hand of Death tightened in his chest - no, he had to know. He struggled in vain against the encroaching tide.

"Look ... at ... me," he whispered. He had to know. He had to know if the boy would do it. Was the boy James Potter? Or was the boy Lily? Would the boy do it?

Ah. Yes. It was true, after all. He had not realised it before. The boy had his mother's eyes. It did not turn out the way he had planned it, but somehow things would work out.

The darkness fell over his eyes, and all was silent.


	15. To sleep, perchance to dream (Part III)

To sleep, perchance to dream (Part III)

It was like water; he was drowning in ice. It was like fire, and burned him like acid from the inside. It was like the grave; it smothered him in oily shadows. It hurt. He was dying. It was, at long last, Justice. The poison choked his throat. It trickled from his nostrils and clouded his eyes. He could not stop. He had to keep drinking.

He heard his name. A hand grasped his, and cupped his neck. He looked up. Through the haze of pain, he saw her eyes. Sweetness flooded his veins, quenching the inferno within. His vision cleared. She leaned above him, her life-blood pulsing from a wound over her heart, into his cup and his mouth. As he rose up, he was the boy he had been, the last time they had spoken. Their eyes met. Finally, he could speak the words he could not have spoken, would not have spoken, so many years ago.

"I understand now. I'm sorry. I will change for you."

She smiled. "You already have."

Yes, that was in the past. She was no longer that girl; he was no longer that boy. He spoke again, this time as the man he was to the woman she had been.

"I've killed you and your family. Forgive me."

Another mysterious smile. "I already have. We all have."

She pointed. The classroom was empty, the students were gone, the door finally open. Silver light streamed in from the outside, so bright it clarified all corners of the dungeon. But of course! The students had already graduated, why would they be there? He had somewhere to go too, something to do.

He stepped forward, then paused and turned back to her.

"I loved you," he said. "I still do."

"I know, my friend. I have always known." Sorrow rose up within him, but it was no longer that bitter and wrathful sorrow, but sweet and light. He met her smile with his own. Perhaps that was all he had ever wanted or could have hoped for.

"I have to go. Good luck with your son. And - and - give my regards to James."

He stepped through the door, and woke up.


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Interloper!" The boy jumped. It was one of the portraits. An ugly one, painted in greytone. "Wait! You - boy - what's your name? Who's Harry Potter to you?"

"Uh." He decided it was better to tell the truth. "Al Potter. Albus Potter," he replied, "Harry Potter is my father."

" _Albus_?" The portrait laughed horribly. " _Albus_ Potter?"

"I'm extremely honoured to have Harry name his son after me," another portrait spoke up. It was a colourful picture of an old man. Some of the colours were, in fact, downright bizarre. The old man winked at the boy.

"That idiotic boy truly is more idiotic than I can ever imagine!" Thundered the ugly portrait.

"Now then, Severus, don't scare the child."

"But that's also my name! I'm Albus Severus Potter." The boy gazed at the two portraits in wonder. Were these the two headmasters his father had told him about?

The ugly portrait did not look pleased. It stared at the boy appraisingly. Finally it said cryptically, "This is a powerful magic."

"All right, time to go, Al Potter," The colourful portrait said cheerfully, "otherwise we'll have to report you."

As the boy walked down the staircase, he heard the portraits discuss him, but he could not make out what they were saying.


End file.
